The grand carriage hurtled past the wrought-iron gates of the Duchy, its windows sealed against the cold. Marcella was swathed in thick blankets. Berith sat beside her, elbows resting on his knees, his hands tangled in his hair. The madness had drained from him at last, leaving behind only its ghost and the consequences it carried.
It had been a long night. A long, brutal, bleeding night.
He glanced sideways, his gaze falling on the sleeping girl. But to him… to him, she was everything. He leaned back, head against the carriage wall.
Berith had broken the law of blood. He had chosen her.
Somewhere between Ashenholt and the Cardanian borders, he finally found his voice. "I was furious with you," he said, though she could not hear. "I wanted to hate you for betraying me." His voice broke as he looked out at the snowy forests passing by. "But I think… I was angrier at myself."
